


more than my words know how to show you

by pechee (sajere1)



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Canon Autistic Character, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:02:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23705431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sajere1/pseuds/pechee
Summary: Fig and Ayda, years later, in love in the early morning. On words and touch and the lack thereof.
Relationships: Ayda Aguefort/Figueroth Faeth
Comments: 5
Kudos: 105





	more than my words know how to show you

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for passing mention of anorexia, unhealthy recreational drug usage, and, of course, Sexy Times

Ayda Aguefort is one of the most touch starved people Fig has ever met.

Not that Fig doesn’t have her fair share of hang-ups about it – especially back when they first met, as teens, when every touch was a reminder of how hot her blood burned now, that she was different, that she’d changed. Fig loves the bad kids and she loves her fiancée and she loves Aguefort Academy, but high school was just…well, it was high school. There’s only so much you can do to get around the crushing weight of being an adolescent.

For the most part, though, Fig has gotten better over time. It took _forever._ There was something weirdly, selfishly enjoyable about hating herself, for a while. Starving herself of touch (and briefly, in the summer before freshman year, just starving herself), ruining relationships on purpose, kicking and screaming at anything that might resemble a positive influence – there was a pleasure in hurt. Not all rebellion is healthy. It wasn’t until she was in college that she understood that being healthy mattered.

_(It was for Ayda that she learned it. In the first years of knowing each other, Ayda was still coming off living in a city of pirates, and Fig was Fig, so it wasn’t a problem for either of them – drinking and smoking up and waking with no memory of the last 12 hours was just something that you did._

_Fig doesn’t know when it changed, just that it did. It’s a bit blurry, the whole evening – she remembers touching Ayda’s face. Ayda was crying, she thinks, because she had said something, slurred and half-aware, cupping Ayda’s face as flame rolled over her knuckles, about how it was okay. How Ayda couldn’t hurt her._

I think you are being hurt, _Ayda said. She was sniffling._ But you are not telling me. You have never not told me something before. I must have hurt you in some way to incur this, and I don’t know how to make it up to you, and I don’t want you to leave me, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

_They sat down and talked about it, eventually. Fig loves that about Ayda – that she makes Fig sit down and talk things through, communicate, work in steps, when Fig just wants to run. She loves that Ayda makes her want to compromise. She loves that Ayda makes her want to be better._

_They talked about it eventually, because Fig failed many, many times on her own. But when Fig woke up the next morning, when she pieced the fragments of the night before together in her head – she swore to go sober. That means something. Even if she couldn’t follow through for a while, that means something.)_

So Fig doesn’t _not_ crave touch. But she also doesn’t need it the same way Ayda does. Ayda is better about caring for herself nowadays, too, of course – she knows now to move on from people who treat her like she’s strange, to tell Fig herself when she feels insecure, to put words to the ways she handles the world around her. Fig doesn’t understand all the jargon, exactly, but she knows that when Ayda flaps her hands she is excited, and that when she paces it is comfort, and that when she sits down and digs into her senior thesis for hours straight it is fun. She has gotten better, over time, at toeing that line; knowing when Ayda is using her tools in a way that is good for her and when she’s using her tools in a way that is hurting her, when to gently remind her that she can pace if she wants and when to pull her to the bed and get her to stop moving. It is not a thing that Ayda could communicate before, because it is not a thing Ayda used to know about herself, either. They are both better at it now.

But she’s still touch starved. What Fig has learned, over time, is that touch is just different for Ayda. A lot of sensory stuff is. Noise is louder, smell is stronger, heat is warmer. Touch is – more intimate, more _touch,_ in a way that Fig doesn’t know if it’s possible for her to understand. And that makes the need for it – more. More desperate, isolating, lonely, but more overwhelming, easier to overdose on. Hypersensitive isn’t quite the right word. Like with any coping mechanism, there is a line between not enough and too much, and for Ayda, that line is thinner than most.

Ayda shifts on the other side of the bed. Fig – long since awake; her damn 8 AM Tuesday-Thursday has ruined her sleep schedule, she’s like a _dad_ now or something – shifts, carefully, where she’s propped up on her elbow, so that she doesn’t trap Ayda’s folded wings. Ayda flips over in bed, sleepy, blinking her eyes open.

Fig smiles, cups Ayda’s face, and kisses her forehead. Ayda has a careful line about touch. Luckily, Fig is happy to devote her life to learning about it. “Good morning,” Fig murmurs, pulling back. They’re not touching directly, now, but the blanket is bunched up between their legs, close enough that their body heat passes through it. “How are you feeling?”

Ayda blinks, again – she looks a little owlish, almost, in the morning, getting the sleep out of her eyes, it’s incredibly cute – and props herself up against the pillows so that she and Fig are at eye level, so that the flaming curls she’s starting growing out again flop in her face. “Excellent,” she says. Her voice is throaty, right when she wakes up, struggling through yawns to order her words proper like she wants to. She blinks a couple more times, and smiles, a little dreamy, the way that still makes Fig’s heart leap even after all these years. “I was in great need of sleep. I will make coffee and bring it to you before I return to work. Is that acceptable?”

Fig resists the urge to roll her eyes. Ayda has been working without cease on _The Eons of Solace (Revised)_ for the last few months, an updated version of a book they found cleaning out Kristen’s old room. What had started as a pet project to keep track of various lore exclusive to Leviathan had over time morphed into a frankly ghastly senior project, with a full research grant and everything. Fig is proud of her girlfriend for taking her work so seriously and using her love of history and homemade spells. She also thinks Ayda works too much. “Do you have to go right now?” she whines, flopping onto her face on the bed, her sleep shirt riding up in what she hopes is a seductive manner over her back.

It’s not a particularly risky gambit, because it’s one that always works. Ayda’s eyes dart down Fig’s form, over her legs, quick, before settling on her face again. “It’s…what time is it?” she says, hesitant, fingers curling over the blanket.

Fig grins. _Got her._ “It’s, like, nine. You can sleep in a little.” When Ayda glances doubtful at the door, Fig rolls over so her hair scatters under her. “Pleeeeeease?”

Ayda cocks her head. Fig stretches out, arches her back up to press into the mattress. Ayda looks at Fig the same way she looks at her work, like a mystery, like a puzzle. Fig doesn’t mind – that’s just how Ayda looks at what she loves. “You are exceedingly beautiful this morning,” Ayda says, not quite thoughtful.

Fig flushes. She wiggles in bed, embarrassed – Ayda doesn’t really dirty talk, has no concept of the way people usually do it in porn and stuff. She’s just honest, always, with a chivalry and a sincerity and an adoration that throw Fig out of her groove more than anything explicitly sexual ever could. “You just want me for my body,” Fig teases, grin a little wild as she grasps for her footing.

“No, I don’t.” Ayda frowns. She reaches out to card her fingers through Fig’s hair, to scratch idly behind the horns, right where she knows will make Fig gasp and shudder down against Ayda’s body. “You are the most brilliant, creative, exceptional woman I have ever known. I think constantly of how wonderful you are and how lucky I am to have met a person like you even once across all of my lifetimes.”

Fig buries her face in Ayda’s stomach, huffs out against the tiger-like scarring on her hips. “Babe,” she mutters, and she’s glad her skin is naturally pink in moments like these, because if she still looked Elvish, she’d be visibly on fire right now. “I was joking.”

“Okay. Cool. I was not.” Ayda’s hand has not stopped stroking Fig’s scalp – nails sharp but her touch gentle, soothing long motions that make Fig want to curl herself open to everything Ayda would ask of her. “I think you’re wonderful. I also think that you look beautiful this morning. Not that – you look beautiful every morning, of course. But.” She cocks her head again, just looking, the flames of her pupils dulled into something heated but soft, a gentle glow. “The way that the light falls on you makes you look radiant. And…” She lets her hand trail down, brush over Fig’s eyebrow, nose, the side of her mouth. “…it is very arousing,” Ayda admits quietly, “the – way you look, in the morning. You are…very arousing.”

Fig presses a kiss to Ayda’s thumb. “You have a way with words, Ms. Aguefort,” she hums, shimmying just a bit further down the bed, so that the blanket falls off of Ayda’s legs completely, giving Fig room to settle between them. She rests a hand on Ayda’s leg, and relishes the way Ayda’s breath catches when Fig’s thumb rubs her inner thigh, bunching her pajama pants between her fingers. “Put me to shame. But I _can_ do something about that last bit.”

“That’s not – “ Ayda cuts off with a shuddered gasp when Fig presses her tongue directly over Ayda’s crotch, mouthing over the cloth of her pants, from her perineum up to the V of her stomach in one long lick. Ayda’s hand has returned to Fig’s hair, tight, and Fig relishes it. “You are – extremely creative, and, you, with words, are – “ She falls off with a moan as Fig presses one of her fingers up and in, pulling the lips to one side so that she can lean in and mouth over Ayda’s hole through her pants.

“You’re sweet.” Fig reaches up and tugs Ayda’s pants down, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses over her thighs as she goes, tracing stretch marks with her tongue. “But I’m not…” Fig trails off, as she pulls the pants down and off Ayda completely, taking a moment to throw them onto the laundry hamper and consider. She reaches down, presses Ayda’s legs apart so that Fig can ease her underwear down, too, lacy, Fig doesn’t get Ayda’s thing for cutesy underwear but god she’s into it. “Let me show you how,” she says, finally, throwing the underwear a little more careful towards the laundry, “in a way that’s easier for me.”

Ayda nods, breathless, and it’s all that Fig needs to reach up and press her nose against Ayda’s cunt, to pull her lips apart with both hands and press her tongue in and up, the same motion as earlier, teasing into Ayda’s hole and up over her clit. Ayda chokes out a gasp of a moan, one of Fig’s favorite sounds, as Fig sucks a pair of her fingers into her mouth for a moment and then presses right in. Ayda’s loose – left over tension loss from last night, maybe, or just plain arousal. Either way, it’s really doing it for Fig, who laps at Ayda’s clit eager as she pumps her fingers hot.

Ayda’s head is thrown back, and her leg would be kicking out if Fig hadn’t dedicated one hand to holding it down. Ayda never learned how to control herself, in sex, how to cover up and hide the parts that were vulnerable, because she never wanted to – never wanted Fig to not see her lose her grip on her own body, writhing and jolting at every movement of her tongue. “So fucking hot,” Fig murmurs against the mound of hair at the crease of Ayda’s legs before she presses her tongue in alongside her fingers again, and Ayda wails above her, one hand clinging to Fig’s hair, the other pulled up to shakily tug at her own nipple, shirt pushed up and over for access.

It doesn’t take Ayda especially long to cum – sensitive, always sensitive, and maybe Fig still doesn’t have words all the time but she has spent so much time learning Ayda’s body, will devote so much more. Fig pulls her fingers out but doesn’t wipe them off yet – waits a second for Ayda’s chest to stop heaving before she presses further up her body, nipping at her stomach, up and over to her tits, soaked fingers pressing in abrupt and hard against Ayda’s clit so that her legs spasm. Fig takes Ayda’s breast in hand and scrapes her teeth against a nipple at the same time she pushes her fingers back in, quick flicks of them pumped in and out. Ayda wraps her legs and arms over Fig’s back, frantic and scrabbling. Fig hums something like a groan at the way Ayda’s body moves under her, the way her breasts jolt up and back each time Fig’s fingers thrust in, teasing a nipple under her thumb, resting her mouth hot and open against the other.

“Fig,” Ayda gasps, wet, and she almost sounds like she’s crying, the delightful sob of a way that Ayda’s speech gets when Fig really nails her, “Fig, Fig Fig ohmygod I love you I love you Fig _please_ – “

“I got you, babe,” Fig breathes, pushing up to kiss her, and Ayda cums again under her hands, her whole body spasming with it.

Fig is careful as she pulls her fingers out a second time, wipes them off against the sheets. She makes a move, as if to pull Ayda’s shirt back down, and – swallows, at the sight. Much as Ayda is better at words than Fig is, she is also unfairly, exceptionally hot, and getting her off _does things_ to Fig, the way her flame hair flickers satisfied and low, the way her nipples look all shiny with spit, legs spread, pliant –

“I believe it’s my turn,” Ayda says promptly, pushing against Fig’s shoulder. Fig laughs and lets her roll them over.

**Author's Note:**

> happy figayda week! (maybe? i couldnt find rules on if nsfw was allowed. so happy figayda week until told otherwise!) title is from the song 'hands down' by the greeting committee, which is one of The figayda songs, imho
> 
> written as a request - follow my nsfw tumblr @demisexualriz!


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